Ethereal Oblivion
by Merks
Summary: Communication is the art of survival. Not all of us can be mind readers, and not all of us want to try. [Drabbley OneShot]


**Disclaimer:** If I owned Yu Yu Hakusho, there'd be no Keiko…

His gaze contorts to meet the frosty eyes of his opponent, and a soft sigh escapes his lips. Watching silently as he stalks past him, a myriad of thoughts pulsating through his mind, he decides on one conclusion: Be or be killed, and it's simple as that. The taller of the two stands at his place on the other side of the pasture, and exhales loudly, allowing himself a leisurely stretch as a taunt. The latter, with dark hair and an even darker demeanor, snorts softly and draws his blade. That was how the two met. That was how the two escaped reality for the first time. And that, my friends, was how their story began.

A drunken game of pool is carried out in the back of the bar, voices loud and laughter louder. A thud resounds at the far end of the wooden counter, and a dark-clad man asks softly for another drink. His companion, fair complexion and emerald eyes illuminated in the flickering lights above their heads, repeats the request, and two mugs of fresh and foaming beer are placed before their eyes. One smiles darkly while the other simply drinks, and all is silent between them again. Humorless laughter wafts into their ears from the seat beside them, where a cloaked figure takes up residence. One, with the tempting and bitter smile, ignores him, but the other is intrigued and he stands, sitting on the other side of the stranger. Silence looms for a moment before the first decides to leave, his red headed companion stranded alone with a stranger.

He never was one for cheating, nor was he one for drunken fucks or one-night stands. Those things were supposed to mean something, almost sacred, sometimes an unspoken bond. He had never been good at finding someone to share that with, as most of the time, when the supposed meaningful sex was over, he'd find himself alone and abandoned yet again. It pained him a bit, but he doused it in alcohol. He wrapped his coat around himself as the crisp winter air bit at him, and walked home, not caring if his 'lover' made it back in one piece. He was through with it.

Back at the bar, things are faring better for the long-haired man. He twirls his hair around a finger, and the gesture does the trick, the cloaked man leading him outside and to a hotel not three blocks away. There, he sees the man for the first time. He has long black hair and cold eyes a calculating smile that bores through his very soul. He then realizes that this was a mistake. He's not going to escape this unscathed, and he wishes for the numbness of alcohol that was already ebbing away.

Slick skin slides against slick skin, and he cries out, not from pleasure but from pain. There is the same humorless laughter as in the bar, but it's sinister to his ears. He whimpers as something scratches his stomach, taut muscles pushing and pulling as he nears an involuntary high. He moans, the sound of joy gurgling into a whimper of discomfort, but his simple plea is discarded. As the white-hot sensation builds and releases, a name slips into the air, the face of his departed lover flashing before his eyes. "Hiei…" It's quiet, but the stranger hears and doesn't like it. As the emptiness of darkness settles over his eyes, he sees the glint of light on metal, and fear encases his thoughts.

What the hell did he ignore his lover for?

The funeral is quiet, few people attending. The casket is open, a kneeling figure hunched over and silent, tears leaking from normally ice-cold eyes. His heart keeps breaking, inch by inch slipping into oblivion, creating a black hole in his chest that swallows every emotion but fear and regret. The ceremony ends, and the drive is silent as he waits for the burial. Memories drift through his otherwise blank mind, and he hears himself sniffle, his hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. He shouldn't have left him alone with the stranger. He should've taken him away, brushed his teeth till his breath no longer smelled of booze, and curled up with him in their pajama's, cuddled in each others arms till morning. Instead, now his only solace would be silence and pictures of precious memories that are bound to flit away with time.

As the polished wooden casket is covered with dirt, he feels himself become numb and he leaves half-way through, unable to keep himself still. He knows that it's now or never. If he loses the memories, if they're no longer fresh in his mind, he won't be able to live with himself. He drives home and drinks himself into an ethereal coma before collapsing on the couch, spent and ready. The knife shines in the flickering light from the lamp overhead, and he smiles darkly, much like the time they met. As he's about to slash his wrist, a warmth envelops him and he stops, hearing his loves voice in his ears. "Don't," it commands him softly, "please don't." He can only oblige, whispering the name of the man that he'll never see again before slipping into a void of slumber.

The name echoes softly on the air for a moment longer before it drifts into the night, unheard by anyone else. "Kurama…"

**Owari  
**Do. Not. Ask. I'm satiating my dark cravings with these things. Just a note, the 'stranger' is Karasu.


End file.
